


By Any Means Necessary?

by salvage



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Next time, I get to seduce the rich guy." Clint Barton (alias William Brandt) is working for SHIELD and his handler sends him on a mission to "'soften up' billionaire Tony Stark in order to make him more amenable to the Avengers Initiative." You can guess how Clint decides to do that. (Only a few details from Mission Impossible are included, but I felt like I had to include the tag.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Means Necessary?

**Author's Note:**

> God help me, a Mission Impossible 4/Avengers crossover, due to the fandom rule that all the characters that one actor plays in different films are the same person. No familiarity with MI4 required, really, it’s mostly Clint Barton with a few details about William Brandt thrown in (see below). I know SHIELD probably wouldn’t use a cover identity established by another agency, but look at all the fucks I give about that. Pretend it’s so that they can use the agency analyst backstory that the William Brandt identity already has. Or whatever.
> 
> Minor spoilers for MI4: The only detail you really need to know from MI4 is that William Brandt was assigned to a security detail protecting Ethan Hunt’s wife, Julia. He had “a bad feeling” about something but didn’t act on it because it went against orders and as a result Julia was murdered by a Bosnian hit squad or whatever. (Spoiler alert: she wasn’t actually killed. Or whatever.)
> 
> This story is now available in podfic form, thanks to Liannabob! You should definitely listen to the podfic, her voice is absolutely beautiful. Download it [here](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1472451.html).

One of the things that made Clint Barton a top agent, first with the IMF, then with SHIELD, was that he never disobeyed orders. He questioned them, of course: often obnoxiously and repeatedly. But even after the fuckup with Julia Hunt, Clint never disobeyed a direct order.

Of course, when his handler, Agent Coulson, told him that his next mission (should he choose to accept it, his brain always filled in, though in SHIELD there was never any choice involved) was to “soften up” billionaire Tony Stark in order to make him more amenable to the Avengers Initiative, Clint wasn’t even sure what he should be questioning.

“Just to get this straight,” he said to Coulson. “When you say ‘soften up,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“Director Fury wants Stark willing to participate in the Avengers Initiative. Use whatever means you deem necessary.” Coulson leaned across his desk to hand Clint a file folder full of relevant information on Stark and then leaned back, looked at his computer screen, but Clint wasn’t finished.

“Because I’ve always read the phrase ‘soften up’ to mean one of two things.”

“What are those two things, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked when it was clear Clint wasn’t going to continue. His shirt was white, which was somewhat unusual for Coulson, who for a senior SHIELD agent had a surprising sartorial sense. His tie, however, was matte black with iridescent stripes that shimmered like oil spots every time he shifted position. Clint hadn’t seen this one before; it must be new. It suited Coulson.

“One is to beat into a pulp. Which I’m assuming Director Fury doesn’t want.” Another pause.

“Go on.” Clint was pretty sure Coulson was close to narrowing his eyes in frustration. Clint had seen him do it once, and it had been pretty terrifying for the junior agent at the receiving end of the glare. Clint was excited for the possibility; he spent way too much time thinking about ways to draw reactions out of the implacable Agent Coulson.

“The other is to seduce.”

“By any means necessary,” Coulson repeated evenly, turning back to his computer screen. “Now get out of my office, Barton.”

* * *

SHIELD got Clint a job in Stark Industries’ legal department. Coulson insisted that Clint needed to be established firmly enough in the department that higher-ups would trust him to handle bringing important paperwork to Stark. Clint bribed three people to make it happen sooner rather than later.

Which was how Clint found himself in a dark, expensive suit in front of Stark’s mansion, carrying an extraordinarily fancy leather folder with the paperwork required for the transfer of the CEO position, speaking to a disembodied voice.

“Uh, yeah, I’m here from legal? William Brandt. I need signatures from Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. About the CEO thing.” Coulson had informed him that the entire mansion was run by AI, and Clint hoped that the AI wasn’t sophisticated enough to catch onto how unlawyerlike he sounded.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Brandt. Please come in,” the cultured British voice responded, which Clint had to remind himself was not human. “Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts are in the gymnasium. Please follow the lights.” Lights in a hallway off of the foyer (which was the size of Clint’s living room and then some) flicked on, and Clint followed the hall to the classiest fucking training area he had ever seen. Stark was in the middle of a boxing ring sparring with a man Clint recognized from his briefing folder as “Happy” Hogan; Pepper Potts was walking toward Clint, a pleasant smile on her face.

“Hi, Mr. …” she began. She extended her hand and he shook it, and she had the strong handshake he had expected of her.

“Brandt.” Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he noticed that Stark had stopped boxing and was looking at him. He smiled easily and opened up the folder. “This should be quick and painless.”

Stark stepped out of the ring and squinted at Clint, giving him a slow once-over. Clint’s hearing was keener than most people’s, and even he barely heard Stark say, “I should hope it isn’t too quick.” Potts shot Stark a look.

“You’re going to have to give me a fingerprint, Mr. Stark,” Clint said evenly. This mission was turning out to be easier than he’d thought it would be.

“Unstrap me,” Stark said, holding a gloved hand out to Clint. The glove left his fingertips bare. Clint tried to keep his face expressionless as he peeled off the Velcro straps around Stark’s wrist; Stark didn’t take his eyes off of Clint. His gaze was more serious than Clint had expected, having read the file (full of words like “playboy” and “reckless”) and seen the video of the recent senate hearing. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead; his hair stuck to his skin with it. Clint held onto the glove as Stark pulled his hand out of it and flexed his fingers a few times. His fingers were long and elegant, the knuckles marred with pale scars, some faint dark smudges around the fingertips. “Ever step in the ring?” Stark asked casually while signing.

“Not in years,” Clint replied vaguely, hoping he wouldn’t have to fight Hogan. He was supposed to be William Brandt, Mundane Lawyer Type, not William Brandt, Undercover SHIELD Agent. He tried not to fidget uncomfortably. Stark looked up from the paper he had signed, an unreadable smile on his face.

“Happy, your gloves.”

Oh fuck, he was going to have to go up against Stark.

“Tony,” Potts warned, but Stark waved her off.

After a moment in which he could not figure out how to say no to Stark, Clint resigned himself to his fate and prayed that he’d be able to control his decades of SHIELD training. It was going to be ugly if he didn’t. He stripped off his jacket, tossing it over a bench, then loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. Stark didn’t even try to hide his stare as Clint unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves.

“Not just an office drone, then,” he murmured with appreciation. Clint allowed himself a quick half-smile at Stark, who returned a lascivious grin of his own.

“Oh my god,” Pepper said to herself.

Hogan handed his gloves to Clint, who put them on somewhat awkwardly.

Stark came at him with a fairly straightforward uppercut, which Clint purposely avoided. But with Stark’s next approach Clint’s instincts kicked in, and in a split second he found himself hovering over a prone Tony Stark, feeling after the fact the places where his shirt was rumpled from having rolled Stark over his back, pawing uselessly under his left arm for a weapon, without having broken a sweat.

“Holy shit,” Stark said.

Clint backed away from Stark, tearing at the Velcro on the gloves. “I should probably be going,” he said, mostly to himself, ducking out of the ring and tossing the gloves back to Hogan. _Cover blown, leave the area as soon as possible,_ were his automatic thoughts.

Clint rolled his sleeves down, fastening the buttons at his wrists, and slipped the tie around his neck, straightening his collar over it. As he tightened it he finally allowed himself to glance over at Stark, who was standing next to Potts. They were conferring softly, and he had seen enough video footage of her in the background of press conferences to know when she was disapproving but tolerant. Stark’s eyebrows were pleading. This was not a conversation about a potential security hazard in Stark’s life. Mission: not blown.

Clint slipped his jacket on and cleared his throat slightly, confidence bolstered. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts,” he said, picking up the folder he had come in with. “Will you be needing anything else today?”

“Yes,” Stark said just as Potts said “No.”

Clint smiled pleasantly. “Have a great day.”

The air-conditioned interior of his car hadn’t even completely warmed in the midday sun when Clint got back into it; he dialed Coulson before even leaving the mansion’s driveway.

“Barton,” Coulson said, (Clint thought) somewhat warily.

“I think he _like_ likes me,” Clint immediately started in with a slightly breathy falsetto.

“Barton.”

“Seriously, though, the guy has some major issues. Who gets turned on after someone takes them down in like two seconds?”

“It took you two whole seconds? I think SHIELD needs to seriously reexamine its hiring standards.”

“Figure of speech. You know I’m better than that. It’s why I’m your favorite.”

“I know you’re the one who started that rumor,” Coulson said, dryly, but Clint could hear a smile under the words. “Now get off the phone, SHIELD is not paying for another ticket.”

“I could be using one of those hands-free—”

“You’re not.” Coulson hung up and it only then hit Clint that Coulson hadn’t even reacted when he’d ambiguously mentioned “taking down” Tony. For some reason Clint smiled the whole way back to Stark Industries’ headquarters.

* * *

The next day, Clint got a call from Stark.

“Brandt, was it?”

“Yes, sir, William Brandt.” Clint clicked on the “deal” stack in computer solitaire.

“Tony, please, call me Tony.”

“Tony.” Clint let his voice slowly trace the name.

“Mmm. What would you say to a relocation?”

“In the temporary physical sense, or in a more metaphorical sense?”

Tony hummed a little laugh. “Pepper needs an assistant.”

“What gives you any idea that I have the qualities required for the job?”

“Just come to the mansion tomorrow morning.”

Clint agreed, and after he hung up immediately called Coulson, for the second time that day. As the phone was ringing, he wondered idly whether calling his superior every six hours was professional, but he tossed the thought aside.

If SHIELD had wanted professional, they would have sent Natasha.

* * *

Clint found himself in Monaco, then, confirming reservations for absurdly expensive hotel rooms and being what he thought was a pretty damn good assistant, until Stark—Tony—disappeared from the lounge and reappeared on the television screens.

“William!” Pepper called, and Clint elbowed his way through the socialites, narrowly dodging precariously-held drinks until he was at Pepper’s side. “Did you know about this?”

“No, I did not.” Clint ran through possibilities in his head. Was this outside of the normal realm of recklessness for Tony Stark?

“This cannot happen. Get Happy.”

Clint called Hogan, who was waiting out by the car, Tony’s suitcase armor handcuffed to his wrist. “Mr. Stark has decided to participate in the race, Ms. Potts needs you.” And then he glanced up at another television screen, and saw someone who was obviously not part of any pit crew step out onto the track. Of all the times to not have a rifle, Clint thought.

In a perfect world, Clint would have already been stationed on an upper floor of one of the surrounding buildings (out of force of habit, he had already gone over the layout of the buildings and the track and chosen his top three spots), compound bow in hand. He didn’t even think twice: once Pepper and Hogan had taken off, he dodged through the crowds, heading toward the track.

He took a moment to despair that all he had on him was a standard government-issue Glock 23 (“If you’re caught with anything more heavy-duty, you won’t be able to private-security-contract your way out of it,” Coulson had said, annoyingly right, as always). The bleachers were in chaos, but Clint found a service entrance underneath the bleachers that let him get close enough to the track. He ran along the concrete wall, gun in hand, nearing the brightness of flames and the crackling, electric sound of—were those electrified whips? Jesus. SHIELD was going to be all over this guy.

Clint formed a priority list without even meaning to. Priority one: Keep Tony Stark safe. Priority two: Keep casualties to a minimum. Priority three: Do not be seen. One of the electrified whips slashed a fucking car in half. Clint aimed the gun at the guy, but heat waves radiating off of a burning car obscured his vision. He passed the flames, and his line of sight opened just as Hogan’s car flashed around a bend, aiming straight at the whip guy. Clint dove back as the car slammed the guy into the barrier.

“M’sieur, il faut que vous—” Clint whipped around and found himself pointing the Glock at a terrified and bewildered police officer, who belatedly reached for his own weapon. He heard Pepper scream and the car’s engine gunned and it crunched against the barrier again; Tony was shouting and one of the whips cracked and something heavy (a car part?) hit the pavement.

“Get out,” Clint told the policeman, nodding his head away from the fight. The policeman balked for a moment, then ran. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Clint said to himself. The suitcase armor was fitting itself around Tony’s body.

The whip guy stared at Tony as Tony suited up, and Clint took his chance. He aimed for the guy’s right shoulder and hit it with a little dark burst. The guy staggered forward, probably more from shock than anything else, and turned to look for Clint.

Tony took his chance to strike the guy with a repulsor blast, which knocked the guy back before he lashed out with the whip at his left hand, wrapping it around Tony’s neck. _Fuck._

Clint hit the guy’s left shoulder in what the police reports should definitely call a perfect mirror of the first shot. Tony tugged on the whip around his neck and it crackled and the guy’s arm faltered but he didn’t let go, for terrifying reasons Clint didn’t want to think about too closely. “What is with this guy?” Clint put a bullet in each of his calves and he finally went down, shouting in Russian.

Tony unwrapped the whip from his neck and leaned down to turn the guy over. Clint watched from behind the barrier, gun trained on the guy’s head, because he had been kind in not killing the guy but his kindness had definite limits. Tony plucked something palm-sized, round, and glowing out of the armor going over the guy’s chest, examined it before crushing it and throwing it away. A group of highly-armored policemen dragged the Russian guy away, holding him under the arms in a manner that must have been painful for someone just shot in the shoulders, but the guy thrashed around anyway.

Tony approached the barrier, still fully armored, and Clint scrambled away to avoid being seen. He ran back to the lounge, straightening his suit, trying to reassemble the air of being an innocuous assistant who certainly didn’t carry around a Glock and shoot at obviously insane whip-wielding would-be murderers covered in Russian prison tats.

Before he could actually reenter the lounge, Pepper called him. “Get outside, get in the car.” He emerged from the crowd with the gun hidden away and his most professional face on.

“You appear to be, um, missing part of your door there, Mr. Stark.” Pepper was sitting in the front seat, hair mussed, face red, staring resolutely ahead. Happy still had the handcuff from the armor suitcase around his wrist. Tony was sitting in the middle of the back seat, the slightly blackened suitcase armor on the floor between his feet, smiling widely. Part of his face was blackened with soot. The half-door had been secured with a piece of scrap metal punched through the roof of the car.

“You’re going to have to cuddle up, Will, Pep won’t let me sit near the door.”

“Mr. Brandt can sit wherever he likes,” Pepper gritted out, somewhat nonsensically but Clint gave her a pass. Happy grimaced a little.

Clint raised his eyebrows and opened the door, sliding in next to Tony. Tony didn’t actually move at all, so their thighs and shoulders pressed together and Tony leaned into him at every bump in the road.

The ride to the hotel was about as painfully awkward as Clint expected it would be. Pepper stormed out of the car almost before it came to a complete stop, disappearing into the hotel with her spine a little too straight, her step a little too firm. Clint did wish he could do something for her; when he turned back, Tony was taking two key cards from Happy and straightening up next to Clint. He handed one card over.

“Come up with me.” Tony placed a hand between Clint’s shoulderblades to lead him into the hotel, smiling brightly at everyone they passed. They got into an elevator with an elderly couple who had obviously also come from the race and who eyed Tony warily for what could have been any or all of a number of reasons. Tony winked at the woman and replaced his hand, sliding it almost to the small of Clint’s back, and the woman cleared her throat. So that was the main reason, at least.

The Presidential Suite of the hotel was absurdly luxurious, with a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean that Tony totally ignored. He placed the suitcase on the floor and stood next to it, arms crossed.

“So what’s your deal?”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “What’s what deal?”

“This whole pretending to be an assistant and then shooting guns at guys who try to kill me. Deal.”

Clint weighed his options; Stark was too smart and Clint respected him enough not to play dumb. “How did you know that was me?”

“I’m going to build a million-dollar crimefighting suit and _not_ include night vision and facial recognition software? Come on. And don’t give me any concerned citizen crap, I saw those shots, and I know your background. ‘Research analyst’ reeks of cover identity too. Who do you work for?”

 “I was hired by a private security firm whose interests lie in protecting you.”

“Nope.” Tony shook his head. “Private security firms don’t establish elaborate cover identities. You’re government.”

Clint closed his eyes briefly. He wasn’t strictly forbidden from revealing his identity, but he was definitely blowing this mission. Fury would slaughter him, probably eat some of his internal organs, and leave his carcass out for the vultures. “I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. SHIELD.”

“Thank god for acronyms,” Tony murmured. “Since I’m assuming you just blew whatever mission it is you’re on by letting me know you’re on whatever mission it is you’re on, do you want a drink?” Tony stuck his thumb in the direction of what looked like a very well-stocked bar tucked in a corner of the room.

As if on cue, Clint’s phone vibrated and rang in his pocket. It could only be Coulson.

“God, yes.” They definitely should have sent Natasha.

Tony poured a glass of scotch for each of them, then disappeared into the bedroom to change out of the racing suit. Clint stared at his drink. He knew he should call Coulson and explain what had happened, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. As his handler, Coulson knew his history, knew what had happened with Julia Hunt, probably even (being Coulson, and having a somewhat terrifying breadth of knowledge) knew that she was still alive.

“So what’s your real name?” Tony shouted from the other room.

“Clint.” He took a sip of his scotch, a 25-year Laphroaig that started out almost too peaty but became sweet, ended with a sharp fruity note; he breathed in and the taste became more distinct, lingering on his tongue. He was aware that Tony probably would have been able to handle the whip guy on his own; he had known that Pepper and Hogan were driving out there with the armor, had known that Tony had fighting experience. Clint recognized the instinct that had driven him out toward the racetrack as what it was: he would never stand back when his instincts told him to protect someone, ever again, orders be damned.

This was a somewhat terrifying thought. Clint finished his drink and poured himself another just as Tony reentered the room. Tony tossed back his drink as well, and Clint noticed that from under the collar of his button-down peeked a few lines, too dark for veins; Clint would have thought someone had drawn on his skin except for the fact that they had distinct shadows. Clint wanted to push back his collar and examine them, or maybe just touch Tony’s skin, but instead picked up his glass and sipped at the scotch. It really was very good.

“So, Clint,” Tony said. “Should I ask what your mission is?” He raised his eyebrows at Clint and swirled the scotch around under his nose, the corners of his lips turning up under his mustache. His eyelashes were dark, his eyes shadowed.

“I have to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t kill yourself before SHIELD gets a chance to talk to you.” It wasn’t untrue.

“Hence shooting at a whip-wielding terrorist.”

Clint shrugged and nodded. Another sip of the whiskey, and when he wanted to take his suit jacket off he realized he could, he didn’t have to hide the shoulder holster or the Glock from Tony. He slid the expensive jacket off and felt decadent tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair, then slipped the holster off and laid it on the bar.

“Jesus,” Tony said, peering at the gun. “That’s serious.”

“Would you have preferred I used a .22 on crazy whip guy?” Clint loosened his tie; Tony talked right over him.

“Almost as serious as that tie. Your first day on the job and you wear a pink tie? That takes balls.”

“I was carrying around a .40 caliber pistol at a society function without anyone noticing and I basically took down a psychopathic terrorist today and you’re impressed by my tie?”

“Hey, hey, hey, _we_ took down a psychopathic terrorist today.” Tony smiled at him reproachfully; Clint raised his glass and they toasted. “But yeah. Consider me impressed.”

“Mission accomplished,” Clint murmured into his glass without thinking. (He made a mental note to thank Coulson for the sartorial advice; his mind skipped on that thought, coming back to the memory of Coulson over the phone, obviously doing a few other things but also counseling Clint on what color suit and tie to wear. “Will you only choose it if it’s a direct order, Barton? Fine. As your superior, I order you to get the pale gray suit and the light pink tie for the first stage of this mission.” Clint had been planning to get the suit as soon as Coulson had first recommended it, but it was far more fun this way.)

“Oh, so there’s more to this mission than just protecting the genius billionaire superhero from whip-wielding headcases, is there,” Tony speculated.

“I can’t have my own personal agenda?” Clint looked at Tony out of the corner of his eye, feeling a slight grin pulling his mouth sideways. At least he wouldn’t fuck up this part of the assignment.

“It’s never good when your assistants have personal agendas.”

“Technically I think I’m Pepper’s assistant.”

“We sort of agreed we’d trade you.”

“Should I like the sound of that?”

“Excellent question. I think it depends on what we’re using you for,” Tony said.

“I get the feeling it’s going to be handling a lot of sexual harassment lawsuits if you always talk like that.”

“Not if you don’t press charges.” Tony winked.

The innuendo had finally reached a breaking point; Clint gave up and leaned over and grabbed at the front of Tony’s shirt. Tony’s mouth tasted mostly like whiskey, and his mustache was surprisingly soft. He kissed in fits and starts; he would surge toward Clint and lick into Clint’s mouth and his teeth would scrape roughly across Clint’s lower lip, then he’d let up and allow their mouths to press almost chastely together, opening his lips softly and breathing slowly through his nose.

Clint slid off the chair and Tony did likewise, and Clint pressed Tony’s back into the edge of the bar and let his hands wander over Tony’s body. Tony made soft noises under his breath and clutched at Clint’s shirt.

“Can I,” Clint began, and went to unbutton Tony’s shirt, but Tony caught Clint’s hands in his, suddenly serious.

“If I show you something, will you promise not to freak out? Or tell Pepper. Or freak out and tell Pepper. Because I promise I have it under control and I am working—”

“Tony.” Tony released Clint’s hands, and efficiently unbuttoned and disposed of his shirt, revealing a thin white undershirt through which the arc reactor glowed. He hesitantly pulled up the undershirt without removing it. His chest was networked with a series of tiny dark veins, the color of graphite, radiating out from the arc reactor. Clint couldn’t help his brow from furrowing. “What… what is this?” He reached out tentatively and Tony didn’t stop him from touching the skin. The veins were raised slightly, the overall effect like touching some kind of weird bas-relief. He didn’t recoil, just laid his palm flat against the warm skin. He could feel Tony’s heartbeat.

“It’s a problem that I am working on fixing.” Tony rolled the shirt back down. “You know that’s what I do.” His eyes flicked over Clint’s face and he licked his lips, and his expression changed to something familiarly lascivious.

“Please don’t give me a line about other things that you do.”

Tony made a petulant face that twisted his mustache to the side. “It was going to be an amazing line and now you’ll never know what it was.”

“I doubt I’m missing much.”

“And while we’re on the subject, are you clean?” Clint nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but once more Tony continued right over him, leaning in close and lowering his voice. “Good, because ever since I laid eyes on you I’ve wanted to know how you taste.”

Clint only just stopped himself from making a noise that could have been either a moan or a growl. “Oh my god yes,” he murmured. He hooked his fingers into Tony’s belt and walked backwards into the bedroom, appearing not to look away from Tony the entire time (thanks to a half-open mirrored closet door) and ending up with the backs of his knees almost at the bed.

Tony pushed Clint down and climbed on top of him, removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh my god, are these,” kiss, “seriously the things you,” kiss, “use your secret agent skills on?”

“There’s also this.” Clint flipped them over with little effort, kneeling over Tony with a little smile.

“Oooh, yes.” Tony caught his own lip between his teeth for a second and then leaned up to kiss Clint, and his mouth was hot and his hands were all over. He slid his hands under Tony’s shirt to touch the skin but it was clear that Tony wanted to leave the shirt on; Clint wouldn’t mind seeing the veins if it meant more bare skin for him to touch but he didn’t want to push it.

Clint stretched out on top of Tony and pressed their bodies together, and Tony’s hips arched up to press their erections together through layers of fabric. Tony tipped his head back, eyes closed, and made a little moaning noise as he rocked against Clint, and Clint was struck by an intense desire to fuck him which he wasn’t sure whether or not to ignore.

“Less pants,” Tony said, echoing Clint’s thoughts, “less of that. Please.”

Clint climbed off of Tony and stood to take his pants off but Tony stayed on the bed and sat up to sort of wriggle out of his. Clint stood in front of Tony wearing only his underwear and Tony just stared at him for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed wearing his undershirt but otherwise naked, erection sort of bobbing in his lap. He was beautiful; he would be more beautiful if his torso wasn’t covered in slate-gray veins, Clint thought, feeling a bit of worry for whatever the “problem” was.

“You should probably get on the bed,” Tony said, almost casually, nodding to the space next to him, and once Clint did Tony pushed him back until he was on his back, propped slightly on his elbows, then kneeled over his legs. Clint fisted one hand in the comforter. Tony pushed his underwear down.

Tony started out licking around the head of Clint’s cock before he took the whole thing into his mouth, wrapping a saliva-slick hand around the base and working it slowly. He bobbed his head and after a few times took a little too much, and Clint felt Tony’s throat tighten and had to work to keep from thrusting into Tony’s mouth. He opened his eyes and watched Tony and Tony glanced up at him, eyes dark, cheeks hollowed. He ducked his head again, went back to it for a moment, then pulled off with a wet sound. Clint couldn’t help moaning just a little. Tony kept stroking Clint’s cock and propped his cheek on his other hand, watching Clint.

“My god look at those fucking abs,” Tony murmured. “You are just all kinds of delicious and I want you to fuck me senseless. Is that okay? Can we work that out?”

Clint tried to articulate how much he wanted that, but all he managed was, “Uh. God, yeah.” He tried to catch his breath. “Please.”

There were condoms and lube in the top drawer of the table next to the bed, somehow, for some Tony Stark reason that Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. Tony lay under him, twitching, while Clint worked him slowly open with his fingers. “Ohhh. Yeah. Okay, that’s good, it’s just, you can do more, seriously, Wil—or Clint, whatever your name is,” Tony babbled. “Please, I’m ready now, really.” His shirt rode up as he writhed, trying to drive Clint’s fingers deeper into him, and he pulled it back down almost surreptitiously.

“If I fuck you, will you shut up?”

Tony grinned up at Clint. “Probably not. It’s worth a shot though.”

Tony was comfortably tight as Clint entered him, curling his legs up around Clint’s body almost immediately. They rocked together for a moment, acclimating to the feel of each other’s bodies. Clint pulled out almost all the way then thrusted back into Tony and Tony clutched at his arms, scrabbling callused fingers over Clint’s skin. “Oh, fuck, again, again, please,” Tony murmured.

Clint got a rhythm going and Tony arched his back slightly, and Clint could tell when he was hitting Tony’s prostate by the obscene noises Tony’s breathless monologue turned into. Tony wrapped a hand around his dick and roughly jerked himself.

Tony came first with a loud moan, tensing around Clint, spilling across his fingers and white shirt. He opened his eyes and, between pants, told Clint, “Keep going until you’re done, it’s cool,” though Clint saw what may have been a wince at a particularly hard thrust. Clint finished pretty quickly after Tony did, and as the dissociating waves of orgasm rolled over him he bit his lip and dug his fingertips into the skin over bone of Tony’s hips.

Clint pulled out and peeled the condom off and tried not to just collapse on the bed next to Tony. “I’d ask if it was good for you but look at you, I don’t think I need to.” Tony smiled at him then leaned over, propped himself up slightly for a kiss. It was slow, and Clint was for some reason hyperaware of the brush of Tony’s mustache. Late afternoon sunshine slanted across their bodies, orange and warm where the light from the arc reactor under Tony’s shirt was blue and cool. Clint brushed his fingers across a square of light on Tony’s bare arm.

Only a few work-related thoughts drifted lazily through Clint’s mind, _you should call Coulson and update him_ , and _this is way better than pretending to be an analyst, SHIELD has far better mission objectives_ , and _when speaking to Coulson definitely include every explicit sex detail you can._

Tony’s eyes were closed and where the light caught the side of his face, his eyelashes threw long shadows across his cheek. Mission updates later.

Clint and Tony had sex again when they woke up a few hours later, and the next morning Clint was awoken by his phone alarm. He flung himself out of bed looking for his pants and heard Tony shifting slightly in bed. It was reflex to evaluate himself for weaknesses as soon as he gained consciousness, and he catalogued sore muscles and a bruise sucked onto his neck as he stretched and checked email on his phone. Tony mumbled vaguely from behind him, something that sounded like “William… no wait, what, Clint.”

Nothing important in the email sphere, Pepper had a series of meetings that Clint definitely did not envy her for, but he wouldn’t have to do anything about that; though he was technically Pepper’s assistant his real job seemed to be keeping Tony in line and out of Pepper’s hair. Clint laid back down next to Tony. He would call Coulson later; he couldn’t think of anything lascivious enough to fit into a simple text message, plus he wanted to hear Coulson’s reaction to everything he had to say. Maybe he would attempt to video chat with Coulson, if Coulson would allow it.

They had an hour before they had to leave the hotel to get on Tony’s private plane back to Malibu. Tony fitted himself around Clint’s body and sleepily touched him, sliding his hand across Clint’s arms and stomach and teasingly brushing the head of his cock. Clint hummed. “Good morning.”

“G’morning,” Tony slurred. His eyelids opened slightly and he fixed his gaze on Clint’s face before closing his eyes again. “Mmf.”

Tony had taken his shirt off before they had gone to sleep; Clint slid an arm around Tony’s warm, smooth back and Tony pressed into him, the arc reactor was body-temperature but still had hard, rounded edges and felt strange against his skin. After a little readjusting they were jerking each other off, with no real rhythm or synchronization at first, Tony’s breath and occasionally lips warm on Clint’s neck.

After they finished, Tony settled back at Clint’s side, draping one arm across Clint’s chest. “No, no,” Clint said, pushing Tony’s arm off. “We have to leave to catch a plane in half an hour and look acceptable and not-debauched, go take a shower.”

“It’s my plane, it’s not going anywhere without me,” Tony said into Clint’s shoulder.

“Some of us actually care if Pepper is angry with us.” Clint slid out of bed, dragging Tony a few feet over before Tony let go. “Get up,” he called over his shoulder as he got dressed, just enough to get back to his own room where his own clothes were.

Clint shaved and showered and dressed efficiently, all the while picking select phrases to include in his report to Coulson and going over fantasies where he could tell Coulson in person and actually get some sort of reaction besides a withering glare that could be so easily talked over. He looked at himself in the mirror and noted that the bruise on his neck only showed over his shirt collar if he stretched his head all the way over to one side.

He dragged Tony out of bed and put a big mug of coffee in his hand, then handed him articles of clothing which Tony dutifully put on. Tony followed him out of the hotel looking somewhat rumpled, even in a fresh suit, but still absurdly attractive, and Clint paid a hotel employee so that Tony could take the mug out to the car where Happy and Pepper were waiting. Pepper raised her eyebrows at them.

“He’s here. On time. That is incredible,” she said to Clint just before they both got into the car. “Color me impressed, Brandt.”

Clint just smiled at her. 

Pepper was on the phone basically the entire plane ride, and once Tony woke up enough to function he immersed himself in looking at (and substantially changing, from what Clint could see) schematics on his tablet. Clint read a newspaper (“Stark Attacked At Grand Prix, Dons Iron Man Suit to Save the Day!”) and then casually went to the back of the plane, away from Tony and Pepper and Happy, to call Coulson.

“Barton. I saw those shots at the Grand Prix yesterday,” Coulson began without letting Clint say anything, but, typically, Clint couldn’t read anything in his tone.

“Yeah, basically saved Tony Stark from a whip-wielding maniac, no need to thank me.”

“Nice work, Agent,” Coulson said, and maybe Clint imagined that little bit of warmth in Coulson’s tone, but he couldn’t help a smile spreading across his face anyway. “Anything else to report?”

“Yeeeeeah,” Clint drawled, examining his nails even though he knew Coulson couldn’t see. Coulson waited patiently, without speaking; Clint thought he could hear the sound of typing in the background. Of course Coulson was multitasking. He sighed. They were going to have to do this the hard way. “Would you rather I described the sexual encounters in chronological order or in order of increasing intensity?”

“Barton, if I wanted to learn about Tony Stark’s sexual escapades I would do a Google search.”

“This was the main objective of the mission. Sir.”

“The main objective of the mission was to make Stark amenable to SHIELD’s plan for him, through whatever means our capable assigned agent should choose. You do realize there were multitudes of other means by which to bring SHIELD into Stark’s good graces.”

“You’re going to have to read about it in my report, anyway,” Clint said with glee.

“This _would_ be the only mission you actually write a report on.” Clint could actually hear Coulson’s voice muffle as he rubbed a hand over his face.

Clint’s only regret was that he didn’t get to see Coulson’s face during the conversation. But there was always the mission debrief.

* * *

Tony’s birthday party was later that week; Clint shepherded all the heiresses and socialites into one room and the CEOs into another, then went to fetch Tony, who was already pretty drunk. “Tony, which watch—”

Tony pinned him to the wall and Clint snapped the box shut so the thousand-dollar watches wouldn’t spill out and shatter on the floor. Tony licked into his mouth, tasting of gin and dry vermouth, and his hands skittered under Clint’s jacket, pressing against his chest, his back, untucking Clint’s shirt in search of bare skin. One edge of the arc reactor dug into Clint’s sternum but he was getting used to that, and anyway, he was pretty sure that the gun in his shoulder holster was pressing uncomfortably into Tony’s arm. “Fuck this party, let’s ditch it,” Tony mumbled to Clint’s jaw.

“Tony,” Clint warned him, but softly. “It’s stupid but you have to go.” Tony bit Clint’s lower lip and groaned softly.

“I know.” Tony stopped moving and just pressed himself against Clint for a moment, and when he sighed Clint hugged him. They had been sleeping together for a few days but Clint realized that he had never simply hugged Tony; it wasn’t something that either of them was used to giving or receiving. Tony relaxed into it and rested his chin on Clint’s shoulder. He took a breath. “Okay.” When he pulled back and readjusted his suit, Clint saw the affectation of the Tony Stark, Billionaire Playboy look. “Pick out something expensive,” he said, nodding at the box.

“They’re all expensive.”

“And fix yourself up, you look like you were just sexually attacked by your boss.”

“Technically, Pepper’s my boss.” Clint fastened a watch around Tony’s wrist and Tony shot a lascivious smile at him. “Go,” Clint said, and Tony picked up his half-full martini glass and breezed out of the room.

Pepper had Clint running interference with the large-men-in-expensive-suits contingent of the party, so she wasn’t overwhelmed by them but mostly so that they didn’t notice that Tony was getting progressively drunker. But that meant it took both of them a few minutes to realize that Tony was wearing the Iron Man suit.

“Oh, fuck,” Pepper said, and it was the first (and probably would be the only) time Clint had ever actually heard her curse. “William, go get Rhodey.”

Clint started convincing people to leave as Pepper and Rhodey tried to defuse the Tony situation, and he was at the door handing a very pretty girl a very expensive gift bag and thanking her for attending when he heard an explosion and glass shattering. The girl shrieked and ran out of the house.

For every person Clint had convinced to leave the party there were three more who were standing around Tony’s massive living room watching him blast the bottles (and was that a watermelon? Where the hell had that come from?) that drunk girls were throwing in the air.

Priority one: Eliminate the possibility of civilian casualty. Clint stepped toward one of the girls at the back of the crowd. Then Rhodey showed up in his own Iron Man suit, and they actually started fighting each other, crashing through walls while people scattered. Clint definitely should have let Tony ditch the party. Most of the partygoers did leave, but Clint was looking for Pepper, leather-soled shoes skidding on debris and spilled alcohol. Furniture broke in distant rooms and metal crunched against metal; Clint was familiar with these sounds and did not flinch. He tracked them as he darted from room to room, clearing drunk girls out from corners and under tables and carrying them to their drivers. There was still a huge crowd of onlookers outside one of the giant panorama windows. Clint found Pepper in one of the living rooms just as Tony and Rhodey crashed through the ceiling. He dodged a piece of plaster without thinking and put a hand on Pepper’s arm.

“Ms. Potts, you need to—”

“Do not ‘Ms. Potts’ me! It’s only been worse since you’ve been around, and I know that you’re fucking him—”

“Okay!” Clint said loudly. He basically manhandled Pepper out of the destroyed room, and passed her to Happy when he appeared out of the crowd. He glanced back into the room, which had quieted, and saw Tony sitting on the floor, Rhodey standing facing him, both with their hands up, repulsors aimed at each other. Whatever would happen, it was not going to be pretty.

Clint pulled the Glock out of its holster and that finally convinced the most stubborn spectators to leave, though most of them were so engaged in watching the standoff that they didn’t even notice Clint at first. The last few stragglers had just rounded the side of the house when the explosion happened.

It knocked Clint off his feet, and he fell into a practiced roll that he immediately stood from, crouching slightly, tentatively looking toward the explosion. There was a flash of light and then one of the suits took off into the sky—Clint saw a flash of silver; Rhodey, then. He let himself relax slightly. Rhodey wouldn’t leave without making sure Tony was okay, because as angry as he was at Tony, they were still friends, and even if Clint hadn’t read Rhodey’s file he would have immediately recognized Rhodey’s fierce military loyalty and known that Rhodey wouldn’t leave Tony to die.

Clint put the Glock back in the holster, then walked around the side of the house to the blown-out window. Everything in the room was shattered and blackened; most of the tables were gone and huge chunks were missing from the walls.

Clint’s heels crunched on the shattered glass and bits of plaster that littered the floor. He had to call Coulson before SHIELD found out about this catastrophe, though knowing Coulson and Fury they probably already knew and were flying out to Malibu to hand Clint his own ass on a platter, but first he was going to make sure Tony was all right.

Tony was sprawled on the floor, the faceplate of the Iron Man suit up, pressing his metal-covered fingertips delicately to his eyes. “Clint,” he said.

“Tony.” Clint picked his way around the bigger pieces of debris.

“I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“But it’s okay.” Tony removed his hand from his face and looked at Clint, squinting slightly. “Do you want to know why it’s okay?”

“Why’s that?” Clint asked. He kneeled next to Tony.

“Because this arc reactor is going to kill me soon.” Tony said this calmly, without changing his expression at all. Clint couldn’t stop his own mouth from twitching a little, though he knew that SHIELD had a whole team of scientists working to come up with a solution for Tony as soon as Clint had told Coulson about the arc reactor and the gray, metallic veins under Tony’s skin. “I think I’m going to leave now.” Tony stood unsteadily, and Clint stood to offer him a hand but Tony didn’t take it. “Thanks for everything you’ve done, but you can’t do anything here, for me, now. You’re fired. Go back to your agency.”

Clint stood in the destroyed room a long time, watching the place on the balcony Tony had taken off from, before leaving the mansion and calling Coulson.

“Barton.” Coulson’s voice, Clint thought, may have had an extra edge on it.

“I swear to god it wasn’t my fault.”

“Believe it or not, Barton, I do believe you.”

“You d—what?”

“Director Fury, however, is less than pleased about the outcome of this whole situation. Sit tight and do not do anything until we get there.”

“Yes sir.” Clint sat in his car for a few minutes, staring at the smoking side of the mansion, until the distant sirens pulled up and threw flashing red and white lights into the dark interior of his car. He started it up and drove to his small, temporary, SHIELD-sanctioned apartment.

Clint had never lived anywhere long enough to really have an apartment he thought of as his own, in any real sense. While undercover as an intelligence analyst in D.C., he had lived in a particularly nice building with a doorman and a big marble lobby, but he had never changed the generic hotel-room art on the walls or rearranged the living room furniture from the impractical set-up that occurred when, on the first night there, he dragged the armchair to the middle of the room to watch TV. SHIELD provided quarters for its agents in its headquarters in New York and though Clint was paid enough to have his own apartment, it never made sense to him to get one.

Someone had stocked the kitchen of this apartment with some staples, but Clint never felt like shopping for food, much less cooking, and there wasn’t much you could do with rice without meat and vegetables or something. He flipped through take-out menus but nothing caught his eye, except for the bits of plaster that fell out of his hair onto a menu when he ran a hand over his head. He took a shower instead.

Surprisingly, the suit he had been wearing wasn’t ruined, which was good because it had been one of the nice ones that Coulson had advised/demanded that Clint purchase for this mission. This mission, which Clint had somehow fucked up. He should have known better than to accept another undercover mission; in almost every one he’d had in the past five years, not that there had been too many, someone under his charge had gotten killed. He’d ask Coulson to change his status to sniping missions only, hopefully before Coulson could do the Coulson version of chewing him out over this. He expected that it would feel less like a higher-status agent being angry at him for ruining a mission, and more like a teacher you really respect being “disappointed” in you for cheating on an exam, something he really did not wish to be on the receiving end of.

Clint put on sweats and a t-shirt and ended up falling asleep in front of some reality show on TV, menus spread out and forgotten on the counter.

* * *

“Clint.” Clint woke immediately at the sound of his name, and scrambled to straighten from where he had been slumped over on the couch. Coulson was standing in the kitchen of his apartment, looking at him mildly.

“Coulson.” Clint tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. The TV still murmured in the background; Clint glanced at the clock, which read 3:32 AM. He could hardly believe that Coulson had been able to unlock the deadbolt and open and close the front door without waking him; the man would never cease to surprise him.

“The state of your refrigerator leaves something to be desired.”

Clint shrugged. “Not really here that much.”

Coulson hummed some sort of response that Clint couldn’t figure out. He walked over and sat down on the other side of Clint’s couch, looking the closest to relaxed that Clint had ever seen him. His shirt had very thin dark blue pinstripes and his tie was a matching blue that appeared almost black unless you were looking closely. Clint watched Coulson out of the corner of his eye, absently wondering how anyone could make a receding hairline look so good, but Coulson seemed entirely interested in watching Hoarders.

“Where’s Fury?” Clint finally asked, trying not to sound tentative, though he was sure Coulson could hear it in his voice anyway.

“Attending to SHIELD business,” Coulson answered noncommittally. _Not here_ was what Clint read into this response, and he relaxed slightly.

“Am I…” Clint balked. He was so exhausted, still, and felt a sense of guilt and foreboding that very rarely accompanied his thoughts about his work, for which Coulson was probably to blame, though Clint wasn’t entirely sure why. He had to get this off his chest. “Look, I understand that this whole thing didn’t go as planned and I’m to blame for that. We’re all better off without me on undercover missions. But I’m still a good sniper, I’m still the best you’ve got on that front. Please—just, put me back on duty as a sniper. I’ve never fucked up one of those assignments before.”

Coulson looked over at him, with a more blatant look of surprise written across his face than Clint had ever thought he’d see. “Barton. Who ever said that you fucked up on this mission?”

Clint blinked at him. “Tony blew up his house, I couldn’t…”

“As though you’re responsible for the actions of a probably deranged, definitely unstable crime-fighting billionaire who thinks he’s going to die next week?”

“But the assignment…”

“The assignment was to acclimate Stark to the idea of working with SHIELD by getting one of the top agents participating in the Avengers Initiative into his good graces, and to keep him from getting killed by his own insane indiscretions. And after what happened in Monaco—”

“Whoa, wait wait wait, ‘participating in the Avengers Initiative,’ what does that mean?”

“You didn’t think SHIELD wouldn’t include its own top agents in the Avengers project, did you? With all those maniacs involved, we have to have some team members we can trust.” Clint was at a loss for words. There was definitely a little smirk on Coulson’s face. The bastard. “Of course, if you don’t want to be involved…”

“Hang on, just, please, give me a second.” Clint covered his face with one hand for a moment and hovered the other hand in the air between them, as though that would stop Coulson from looking at him long enough for him to get himself together. He was having a bit of trouble going, in the course of five minutes, from thinking that he was about to be fired to learning that he was going to be part of the Avengers team. He peeked out from between his fingers; Coulson was watching him with patient interest. A genuine smile lingered around his mouth and the corners of his eyes, something Clint couldn’t remember ever having seen so overtly before. And—and that was fondness, softening his gaze, which Clint could have never even imagined Coulson would express, much less toward Clint.

Clint was overwhelmed to be on the receiving end of this look and didn’t know quite what to do with himself. He put his hands in his lap, quelling a surprisingly strong urge to _touch_ Coulson, to grab the hand that curled casually off of the arm of the couch, to wrap his fingers around Coulson’s arm and feel the muscle there, to…

“So that’s a yes on the Avengers, then?” Coulson was still _looking at him like that_. Clint was going to lose his mind.

Clint realized a couple of things simultaneously, and somewhat after the fact, which was disturbing considering how many times he had trusted himself not to act on instinct and had done just that, had waited for orders even when he had _known_ he needed to act. He was on Coulson before he realized he wanted to be, his mouth pressed to Coulson’s before his brain decided to kiss him. Clint processed what was going on and he panicked and tried to take a breath but Coulson was kissing him back—no, wait, once he had his tongue in someone’s mouth it was okay to refer to him by his first name— _Phil_ was kissing him back, hands softly but surely resting on Clint’s hips.

“Oh,” Clint breathed into Coulson’s—into Phil’s mouth. “Um.”

Phil laughed softly, huffing a few short breaths against Clint’s skin. “I was wrong.”

“You were what?” Clint tensed. He was practically sitting in Phil’s lap, his weight leaning on the one leg pressed close alongside Phil’s, the other leg bent awkwardly off the couch. He braced himself on one palm, ready to launch straight across the room, away from Phil, if necessary.

“I really thought you were going to hold out for another week or so.”

“Hold out?”

“I had expected that you would at least pretend we had gained a little distance from the Tony Stark… situation before doing something like this.”

Clint practically threw himself to the other side of the couch, still facing Phil, acutely aware that Phil allowed a hand to drag across Clint’s stomach and down one thigh as Clint did so. “No, that’s not,” he began.

An expression of wry amusement flashed across Phil’s face. “Did I say stop? It’s no fun always being right.”

Clint was still wary but was unable to resist leaning toward him. “Can I get you to repeat that into a tape recorder? I know I’ll want to quote you on that in the future.”

“Ha. Good luck,” Phil said, just before Clint kissed him again. Phil tasted like black coffee; his fingertips on the inside of Clint’s arm were callused rough and belied the paper-pusher look he tried to cultivate. A few pieces fell into place regarding Clint’s actions toward Phil, and he realized he’d been borderline obsessed with the man basically since he had transferred from the IMF to SHIELD. And maybe Phil had paid him more attention than he had his other agents, humored his chatter over the comms and his constant ducking into Phil’s office to harass him or bring him coffee (or to bring him coffee so that his harassment was tolerated, Clint was known to have ulterior motives)… And why had Phil given the Tony Stark seduction mission to Clint, instead of Natasha, who was the obvious choice for a number of reasons?

There was a little stubble on Phil’s face that scraped against Clint’s upper lip. Clint couldn’t remember ever having seen Phil with stubble before, and that right there was a huge hint about his obsession with the man, that he had a mental catalogue of all the times he had seen Phil’s face. He was almost impressed by his own capacity for denial. And kissing Tony had been good—it had been great—but there was something here with Phil that made this experience better, somehow, that made Clint want to latch onto Phil and not let go for a long time. It was a little unnerving.

Clint swung a leg over Phil’s to straddle him and they continued kissing. Clint had never really thought about it, so there wasn’t the satisfying feeling of finally attaining something he’d longed for, but he still felt as though an immense amount of tension was released, not only from him but between them. He let a hand rest on Phil’s shoulder, over his shirt but under the jacket, and slowly stroked a thumb over the line of Phil’s collarbone. Phil tilted his head to the side a little, enough to appear to offer his neck to Clint, and Clint let his mouth drift down almost to the collar of Phil’s shirt, licking and nipping at the skin there. He breathed in and set about dismantling Phil’s suit. He grabbed Phil’s tie by the knot, using it to hold Phil in place as he slid a hand under his jacket to slowly untuck one side of his shirt.

“Careful with the tie,” Phil warned. Clint bit him. He was careful when loosening the tie, though he pulled it off of Phil’s neck with a little more force than was necessary. He unbuttoned Phil’s shirt and encountered an undershirt. “My turn,” Phil said, and pulled Clint’s shirt up and off. When he got his hands on Clint’s skin he actually growled and flipped Clint over and to the side, in one effortless motion, so that Clint was lying on his back on the couch and Phil was hovering over him, shirt and jacket hanging open.

“Jesus fuck.” Clint suddenly understood Tony’s reaction to being manhandled. They were both hard, and Clint involuntarily arched off of the couch to press his hips to Phil’s. Their legs fit together and Clint was aware that he was rutting against Phil like a teenager but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it for the moment. He instead slipped his hands under Phil’s shirt and jacket, and Phil obligingly sat up to take them off. It was the first time Clint had ever seen Phil in just an undershirt. He had known that Phil was fit, having seen him in action on a few missions, but it was another thing entirely to actually see the solid muscles of his upper arms, to be able to touch his lean torso.

“Enjoying yourself?” Phil asked dryly. Clint realized belatedly how blatantly he was staring at Phil’s body; he couldn’t quite make himself feel sorry about it. He shrugged as best he could.

“Well, that makes two of us,” he replied, snaking an arm between them to stroke Phil’s erection through his pants. Phil’s composed expression twitched and Clint counted it as a success. He very badly wanted to make Phil lose his composure completely. “Can I…” he began, one hand on Phil’s belt buckle.

“If you don’t mind, I believe I’ve been consciously waiting for this a little longer than you have.” Phil took Clint’s wrist in his hand and guided it up above Clint’s head, against the arm of the couch. “And I don’t want you to be distracted while I do this.”

“Oh,” Clint said as his brain ceased to function. Phil tugged his pants down and pulled his rapidly hardening cock out. He licked his hand for lubrication in an almost nonsensual manner, except that it was _Phil Coulson_ and he was going to _jerk Clint off_ and jesus of course it was hot.

Phil slowly stroked his cock, and when he bit his lip and his eyelids flickered closed Phil kissed him, one hand still holding Clint’s wrist in place. Clint tensed his body, trying not to thrust into Phil’s hand, but Phil only sped up his pace and when he dragged his thumb over the tip of Clint’s cock, wet with precum, Clint shuddered and his hips twitched up.

It didn’t take long for Clint to reach the verge of orgasm. He warned Phil, to which Phil replied, “Good,” with a very self-satisfied smile.

“Fuck,” Clint mumbled, and came all over his stomach and pants and Phil’s hand. Phil was still smiling at him when Clint opened his eyes. “Give me your shirt,” he said, and when Phil pulled it off Clint used it to clean himself up.

“Your shirt is right there,” Phil pointed out.

“What, I’m not allowed to want you naked?” Clint pulled his pants up just enough. “Come here.” He moved over enough to allow Phil to lay beside him, and they kissed slowly for a moment. Clint dragged his hand across Phil’s torso, then down to the waist of his pants. “Now can I?” he asked with a little smile.

“Yes, please,” Phil said, a little more breathless than usual. It took some maneuvering for Clint to unbuckle Phil’s belt and unfasten his trousers while Phil lay next to him, occasionally kissing him and looking generally tantalizing, but he did it, and pulled Phil’s cock out of deep blue silk boxers (SILK! his brain screamed, and also _this man matches his underwear to his shirt_ ). He licked his palm sloppily and gently stroked, fingers so loose they only gently dragged along the sides of Phil’s cock. Phil made a soft little noise; Clint smiled. He stroked Phil’s cock a few more times, and his hand was getting a little dry; he twisted his wrist and swirled his palm across the head, picking up a little precum.

He licked his hand again, eyes flicking up to meet Phil’s as he did so, thoroughly enjoying the lustful expression he received. Normally Clint would be talking, not even necessarily dirty, but filling up the silence with some commentary, but almost everything that flashed through his mind seemed somehow unnecessary. He kissed and bit Phil’s neck instead, sucking little bruises where he knew Phil’s shirt collar would hide them. (Well, mostly.)

Phil didn’t make any noise, even when he came, but his breathing became ragged and his body twitched and his hands curled around Clint’s arms, fingertips pressing into Clint’s skin. Clint finally tossed away Phil’s shirt and they curled around each other. The couch wasn’t really big enough for both of them, but Phil ended up half on top of Clint, their legs interlaced, faces close enough to kiss. Clint ran his free hand over Phil’s muscles intermittently, when he had enough energy, until he realized that Phil was asleep. They were going to feel awful when they woke up, Clint knew, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to wake Phil and move both of them to the bedroom. He settled his hand flat on Phil’s waist and let himself drift off.

* * *

Clint assumed that Fury was so focused on dragging Tony’s hungover, Iron Man-suited ass back to the mansion that he forgot to be angry at Clint, but as Fury left the mansion, leaving Tony under the care of Phil, Clint, and a few other high-level SHIELD agents, he placed a hand on Clint’s arm. “I don’t want to know what you did to make him so amenable to SHIELD’s plan, but well done, agent.”

“Sir,” Clint replied, trying to keep his face expressionless.

“Keep in mind that Agent Coulson is not the only one reading all high-clearance mission reports.”

“Sir.” Clint nodded, maybe a little too sharply, as Fury swept out of the house.

There wasn’t anything for Clint to do while Tony figured out how to fix his arc reactor, so he ended up sitting on a slightly blackened concrete wall, staring at the absurdly gorgeous view of the Pacific that Tony’s house offered. His SHIELD-issue uniform didn’t actually have a quiver built into it, but he wore a quiver so often on missions that he felt bare without one. He worked his fingers under his arm guard absently, and when he pulled them out its straps had left indentations in his skin. The sea was unreasonably blue.

Clint went into the mansion to get his bow and arrows.

There were three agents on duty at the mansion making sure that no whip-wielding maniacs came in and (more importantly, Clint thought) that Tony didn’t leave. Clint positioned himself in a shadowed corner and waited, arrow nocked. The first one was simple, knocking one guy’s sunglasses off his face as the guy entered the room. To his credit, he didn’t actually shriek, just whipped his head around until he spotted Clint.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the agent said, obviously without thinking, because he immediately curbed himself and looked apologetic. Clint wasn’t sure about his own ranking in SHIELD hierarchy, but he guessed it was because he was technically the agent’s superior. Or because everyone knew that Clint was Agent Coulson’s favorite.

Clint gave him a sunny smile and a flippant little salute. The agent scowled.

The second agent was standing at attention on the newly-created patio, looking out at the sea; when he was in profile to Clint, there was a clear space between the knot of his tie and his shirt front. Clint sliced his tie off, so the guy was left with a knot at his throat and the rest of the tie flapping out of his buttoned suit jacket like a tongue. Clint smiled; there was the slight crunch of a footstep behind him.

“I swear to god, Barton, if you do that to any one of my ties, they will never find your body.” Clint turned to see Phil standing a few feet in front of him, his Serious SHIELD Agent face almost composed.

“Why would I want to do that?” Clint asked, stepping right inside of Phil’s personal space and wrapping Phil’s tie around his hand. “Your ties can be useful.” He pulled Phil into a kiss. Phil wrapped a hand around Clint’s upper arm; his hand was warm and dry on Clint’s bare skin.

“That was a terrible line.”

“There are so many more where that came from.” 

Phil closed his eyes briefly, and gave a little sigh. “Unfortunately, I am very much aware of that fact. Now get back to the job.”

Clint let go of his tie but he pouted at Phil. “There is no job.”

Phil raised his eyebrows slightly at Clint. “Stop shooting at my agents. No canoodling. We are working.” Clint nodded.

“Sir.”

Phil gave him a smile that Clint couldn’t quite figure out the meaning of, then went to talk to the agent who was holding the sliced-off piece of his tie in his hands and looking around confusedly. Clint wasn’t quite sure what to do next; he folded his bow and wished the giant TV in the main living room hadn’t been destroyed by two guys in several thousand-pound robot suits. He heard soft footsteps; Tony ascended the basement stairs, a glass of what was probably scotch dangling loosely from one hand.

“The TV in the second living room still works,” Tony said, as though reading Clint’s mind. They walked there in silence, stepping over the larger pieces of rubble that hadn’t been cleaned up yet. The couch in that room was vast and leather, and they sat at opposite ends of it. Tony surfed through the movie channels; he stopped when they came across Reservoir Dogs.

“Your agency is full of insane and terrifying people,” Tony said conversationally.

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Seriously. That one guy?” Tony held his hands up, palms out, fingers spread. “I just looked at you, jeez.”

Clint snapped his head to the side. “What?”

“Coleman? Coulson?” Tony gestured with his glass. “I mean, it isn’t my fault that that suit makes your ass look great.”

Clint tried to regain his cool. “It’s a distraction tactic. You should see the cleavage on Black Widow’s.”

“Remind me to look that up. But yeah, you can tell him I’m hands-off. Don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

“You? Don’t want to ruffle any feathers?”

Tony looked over at Clint, eyebrows raised. “Possessive types who could probably kill me with a Snickers bar?”

Clint couldn’t disagree. And he wouldn’t admit it, but he definitely felt something warm and satisfying curl in his chest.


End file.
